


My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Death Play, Gunplay, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, One-Sided Relationship, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1220506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from prettyarbitrary:<br/>------</p>
<p>Prompt: Sherlock fucks John with his gun</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/gifts).



Ever since first meeting the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes, he'd lived with this constant ache, this shameful need that he dared not speak. Even that first time, when he'd seen the other man holding a gun at the pool, what felt like a lifetime ago, he'd felt it.

John knew what it was that so fascinated him. Sherlock had stood there holding the pistol, the dark metal reflecting the cold grey of his eyes, and he was lost. Even more than Sherlock's prowess, more than his reluctant beauty, it was that symbol of _power_ , resting so comfortably in his strong hand, that made John _ache_. It was that damn gun that had made him almost say, ‘Forget Moriarty.' It had called to him.

Resigning himself, John settled down, stretching out fully naked on his hard bed, the cool autumn air from the open window on his heated skin becoming almost pleasant. He let one hand drift over the long line of his throat, over his peaked nipples, over his flat stomach, teasing himself with light touches. But his other hand was not so complacent. He wrapped it around his, now, fully erect length, stroking himself slowly but in deadly earnest. Thoughts of his flatmate filled his thoughts, the name, 'Sherlock,' slipping from his lips on a breath, whispering through the stillness of the room.

If Sherlock were to enter now would those hard, silvered eyes slide along his naked flesh? Would he slam the door in disgust? Would he enter and shut the door behind him? John increased the speed of his strokes ever so slightly, twisting his hand as it moved up and down his length. His hips began to lift from the bed with nearly imperceptible thrusts. He thought about that gun, as much a part of Sherlock as his Belstaff coat, a shield he held between himself and the rest of the world.

How would it feel getting shot again? The thought resounded through John's mind, increasing the pulsing throb in his cock that was becoming more and more unbearable. A thin trickle of fluid began to leak from the tip of his shaft and he ran a thumb through the moisture. He hissed as he touched the sensitive head, and rubbed the wetness down the side of the stiff cock, easing the friction as he caressed himself. He tightened his grip, letting the pressure grow, letting it tingle in his gut and in his toes.

John reached down with the other hand, grabbing hold of his sack, squeezing it almost painfully. He tilted his head back, lips parting on a soft cry.

How would it feel? He'd been shot before, but not by Sherlock. Never by that damned man who made him shout out in the night, sheet and hand wet with helpless desire. So many times John had come close to begging for something, anything, that would ease his futile obsession. Surely just one bad fuck would cure him, allowing him to put the detective in his proper place as a merely a friend now and nothing more. But, what if Sherlock did fuck him and it was good? What then?

It was nothing more than a pipe dream, in any case. Sherlock didn't know the meaning of the word 'libido'. He was dedicated to cases and experiments with a single-mindedness that John found ludicrous.

So, how would it feel to get shot by the detective? He could almost feel the bullet piercing his flesh with remorseless purpose. The agony would be excruciating, filling every corner of his body, making him scream. Yes, it would be incredible and he would accept the hot lead into himself as he longed to take in that one part of Sherlock he would never have.

His hand moved over his cock roughly, the motion becoming more frantic as he began to lose control. John planted his feet against the bed, spreading his legs to open himself fully to the eyes he imagined were observing his self-debasement. His other hand drifted even lower, teasing at his entrance, his dry finger a poor, painful, substitute as he forced it inside his clenching passage. He imagined that his finger was the bullet. That the bullet was Sherlock's cock.

He fantasized. Sherlock would come and shoot him with the cold efficiency. Finally, he would feel that penetration he wanted so desperately, fucked by a weapon, the gun, Sherlock had held.

The other man’s name fell from John's lips like a prayer. He pushed another finger into his body, whimpering softly as the burning sensation added to the pressure in his throbbing cock.

The front door opened and shut and John stilled his breath as he pumped himself. Back from the case, he knew. And just as he always knew, Sherlock, no matter the time of the hour, would come up the stairs to his bedroom to inform him the details.

His door swished opened, not having been latched. Finally, his lover was here (Sherlock or the gun? He wasn't sure.) He opened his eyes slowly and turned towards the presence he could feel in the doorway, never ceasing the movement of his hand. Rather, he spread his legs even further, riding his fingers and thrusting his aching cock into his hand with abandon as he offered himself to the icy, silvered gaze. John glanced towards the other, looking deeply into the unreadable eyes which were caressing every inch of his bared skin.

"John...?"

"I was waiting for you," he rasped, his voice unable to conceal his desire, his need. "It was missing. The gun. You took it with you. Tell me." John said with a shuddering moan as his questing fingers found the spot which he'd been seeking. "Christ, tell me."

Sherlock stood as still as a statue, making no reply. Every line in his motionless form shouted some nameless emotion at which John could only guess. Only his shuttered gaze moved, continuing its journey over the expanse of pale skin stretched so wantonly before him. His eyes slid down to the movement of John's hand, as though drawn against its will. His own hands tightened into fists at his side.

"Do you have it?" John breathed. He thrust himself into his tightening grip. He was so close. So close that his entire body was humming with the need for release.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, reaching towards the small of his back and retrieving the weapon. The matte, gray surface seemed to absorb all light, robbing the eye of the terror of its true self. He stepped towards the man writhing in ecstasy on the bed, and pressed the barrel against John's parted, gasping lips. He licked the barrel in appreciation before drawing the metal tip into his mouth with a groan of pleasure. Shooting a target through the mouth, letting the bullet explode through the back of the head... John moaned.  Sherlock froze. 

"Do it, Sherlock," he whispered, not stopping his oral worship of the gun. "Fuck me. I'm ready."

Indecision wavered uncharacteristically in Sherlock's eyes. He pulled the gun from John's mouth, ignoring his moan of protest, and let the barrel slide over the doctor’s body. He dragged it down the slope of his throat, wet with sweat, and over the pointed nubs of his nipples in unknowing imitation of John's earlier self-discovery.

John groaned, pulling his fingers from his body with a quickness that made him cry out, and grabbed hold of the trespassing shaft of metal. Not trying to guide Sherlock's movements, he simply let his hand be led, his hold on the gun his only connection to the other man. He arched his back, thrusting towards the warming barrel as it traced among the planes of his belly and moved down the crease of his groin.

A smoldering, grey glare followed the weapon's progress, Sherlock's free hand clenching ever tighter as John continued to work his cock with fast, jerky strokes. The husky moans echoing from the walls had become continuous, filling the air. He could feel John's glazed eyes on his face as he moved the gun down then up the pale inside of a gaping thigh.

But John’s gaze failed when the barrel pressed between the cheeks of his arse, the metal shaft beginning to penetrate the tight passage where his own fingers had so recently been. Was Sherlock's finger on the trigger?! John gasped, fighting against the need to shout Sherlock's name, afraid the weapon would be cruelly taken away. This was it, the answer to his shameful prayers. His heart shouted, his hips thrusting violent from the hard mattress as his equally hard cock sought the firm pressure of his hand.

He was being fucked by the gun. Sherlock's gun. Sherlock was his gun. _Finally_ , Sherlock was fucking him.

John cried out, spewing his seed violently over his hand and stomach, stray drops falling on the metal shoved so perfectly up his arse. Then the gun was drawn away, shirking away from his outpouring of pleasure, retreating back into its deadly form.

Sherlock stepped away, moving carefully as though in pain. His eyes flicked away from the man heaving for breath on the bed just long enough to examine the white droplets marring the smooth surface of his gun.

"Get cleaned up. There's a case." Sherlock said abruptly. The man turned and left the room without another word.

He did as he was told. And as he wordlessly followed Sherlock to the street, John was only able to commit half of his thoughts to the details of the case. The other half were mired in a sea of growing hope, hope that he would soon receive what Sherlock's eyes had promised with unstated eloquence.

Hope that, at last, he would receive the one thing he wanted most from Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> whoa john, you kinky bastard.


End file.
